Missing Moments
by Jacqueline Albright-Beckett
Summary: A collection of Destiel ficlets, shorts, and drabbles, posted as they are written. A continuation of my one-month "Between the Lines" challenge, this time with no set posting schedule.
1. stop staring

_too hot to sleep_

_is Dean awake  
no_

_get up walk around_

_water  
old pipes make a lot of noise  
did that wake Dean up  
yet if I were to draw a knife he'd be awake in an instant_

_and I'd probably be dead_

_doesn't even look peaceful when he's asleep  
what is he dreaming  
he looks worried_

_shouldn't be staring  
why am I staring  
I don't stare at Sam like this_

_water_

_it's quiet tonight  
too hot for anything to bother making noise  
cold shower might help  
too noisy_

_why am I staring at him again  
like watching him breathe will keep him doing it  
would he wake up if I touched him  
just his cheek  
probably_

_how can he stand being under that sheet fully clothed  
stop staring_

_glass is empty_

_cold tile bare feet  
could sleep in here_

_why do I stare at him  
he doesn't stare at me  
not like that  
do I want him to_

_tile uncomfortable_

_bed, pillow just so  
can't see him from here  
why does that matter_

_too hot to sleep  
too hard to sleep with him so close so far away  
always so far away_

_Dean  
let me be close  
please_


	2. before dawn

Dean used to be a deep sleeper. He didn't know when that had changed — probably in Purgatory, if he really thought about it — but it didn't take much to jerk him awake anymore.

It was a motel room much like any other, with light slanting through the gap in the blackout curtain and the too-bright green LED on the smoke alarm stabbing his eyes after the darkness behind his eyelids. Blinking hard, Dean pushed himself up on one elbow, casting sleep-heavy eyes about the room to discover what had awoken him, if it was a threat, and if it was, if he had time to pee first.

Everything seemed to be in order at first glance, but then the dark shape caught at the corner of his eye and he sat up completely in alarm before the recognition circuits kicked in.

"Cas?" he asked, his voice low and groggy.

"I'm fine." Cas's voice, on the other hand, was merely quiet, barely enough to carry across the narrow space between Dean's queen-size bed and Cas's rollaway. The dark shape shifted in a movement much like someone hugging their knees more tightly to their chest, and the rollaway bed creaked in response. "Go back to sleep."

Not a threat. Time to pee.

Mind marginally clearer after his sojourn to the bathroom, Dean paused as he pulled aside his covers. Cas was still sitting up, forehead pressed against his knees, absolutely still and silent. The sheet and cheap velour blanket had come untucked from the bottom of the rollaway bed - possibly because, even as the shortest of the three of them, Cas was slightly too tall for the bed. Or maybe because he'd been thrashing in his sleep. Or some combination of the two.

Dean could hear Cas taking a slow, deep breath. Very controlled. The breath of someone trying desperately to calm down, to slow a racing heart, to calm the clamoring tumult that adrenaline had made of their body.

He had already rounded the bottom of his bed before Dean realized that he was moving. The rollaway tilted alarmingly as Dean lowered himself onto it, and Cas's shoulders twitched in surprise, though he didn't raise his head.

"Nightmare?" Dean asked softly.

Cas nodded, not lifting his forehead from his knees.

Hesitantly, Dean raised his hand and placed it on Cas's back. It seemed like the thing to do, even if Dean wasn't sure why. Cas flinched away from the touch at first before leaning into it, warm pressure against Dean's hand that rose and lowered with Cas's breathing.

He could have said anything. _I feel you, man_. Or, _that sucks._ Or he could have ventured into dangerous chick-flick territory with _tell me about it_.

He didn't. The need to break the silence burned the roof of his mouth, but he kept it shut. His outstretched arm began to ache, but he didn't move it, just kept resting his hand lightly against Cas's back.

It was Cas who spoke first, rolling his shoulders back as he unclenched his hands from around his shins, stretching his legs. "Thank you."

Dean could feel the muscles coiling beneath Cas's skin, the shoulder blades sliding. He didn't want to move his hand. He made a fist and punched Cas's shoulder gently before standing, his palm still warm, fingers curled against it as though to save the warmth for something later.

His own sheets still held some of his body heat as he slid between them, but even after punching his pillow into a more satisfying shape, he lay awake for a long time, until he heard Cas's breathing grow slow and regular. Only then did his eyelids grow heavy and his hand uncurl, the feel of Cas's back against his palm escaping into the silent moments before dawn.


	3. ache

Cas had wounded him before in so many ways; black eyes and broken bones, bruised spirits and the ache at the back of the throat when there were words that needed to be said so badly that they couldn't possibly be given voice.

But nothing, nothing had hurt quite so much or so deeply as Cas clearing his throat, looking down at his hands, and saying, very slowly, "I'm…I'm flattered, Dean. I am. But…"

Before Cas could continue, Dean had gathered his pride around him like armor and walked away, shoulders stiff, betraying nothing.

They didn't talk about it again.


	4. arm's length

They'd been fighting again.

It wasn't exactly the atmosphere that tipped Sam off. It was the things that were missing. He'd had to glance around the kitchen several times before he could fathom what felt strange, and it wasn't until his eyes landed on the coffeemaker for the fourth time that it struck him.

It was off. Cold, dead, the red light of its power switch dormant.

That was when Sam knew that if he ventured into the library, he'd find Cas sprawled on the old couch, dead to the world. The alarm that normally woke him had probably been angrily silenced by Dean an hour ago, still in the bedroom they shared.

After a moment of careful consideration, Sam reached into a cabinet for the bag of coffee grounds.

He'd been half-right; Cas was on the couch, but he wasn't sprawled. Sam debated with himself as he pondered how small Cas looked, curled up around one of the beat-up throw pillows like that, eyelids fluttering, brows terse and furrowed even in sleep. Finally, he cleared his throat loudly, and Cas's eyes popped open.

"Coffee?" Sam asked, holding up the mug.

Cas blinked blearily, unfurling himself from around the pillow he'd been clutching and sitting up. "What time is it?" he asked, raking his hands through his hair.

"About eight." Sam glanced in the direction of the stairwell. "Dean's not awake yet."

"Mmm." Cas nodded, the faintest cast of bitterness around his pursed lips as he reached out to take the proffered mug of coffee.

Sam watched him take a few sips before letting out a whooshing exhalation. "So. Is this a 'nose in' sort of thing or a 'get out of our business, Sam' thing?"

"I don't know." Cas sighed heavily. "Both? Neither?" He stared into his mug at the coffee, shifting to the side as Sam sat down next to him. "I'm used to his - his moods. I should know better than to try and press the issue when he…" He huffed a breath that could have been a self-mocking laugh. "But then if I drop it he thinks I don't care anymore. And so he goads me into saying things that are way harsher than I actually feel, and…" He glanced wryly at Sam. "And you've seen me when he gets my hackles up."

Sam nodded. "So this is just him in douche-mode, then?"

"Oh, no." Cas took a hasty sip from his mug, looking abruptly abashed. "No, this is - this one was my fault." He let his eyes drift into the middle distance as he directed his gaze back into the coffee. "Didn't feel like it last night, but…I see it now. Where it started."

Sam nodded again. Cas was like Dean in a lot of ways; it was usually better to just let them both talk out whatever was eating at them.

"I just…is it so hard for him to say?" Cas looked up, eyes plaintive. "Is it so hard for him to hear?"

"Yeah," Sam said simply, when it was clear that Cas was looking for an answer. "Cas, everyone he's ever let closer than arm's length…something's happened to them. You and me, we're closer than he's let anyone, and that probably scares him shitless."

"So this happens to you, too?" Cas asked softly.

"Little bit different. I get to stay in my own bed." Cas snorted at that, and Sam let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "But yeah. Every couple of months, he does his weird distancing thing. Like he's trying to prove to himself that he doesn't need me." Sam wished he had a mug of coffee, as well, or at least something to occupy his hands. "He's so tied up in me - and in you, now, too, even if he won't admit it - that if something were to happen to either of us…I think he'd shut down. I really do."

"And so we put up with this." Cas leaned back to get the last swallow of coffee.

"We love him." Sam shrugged. "He knows it. He has trouble believing it, sometimes." He looked sidelong at Cas. "I have trouble believing that you'll put up with his crap sometimes, too. I have to. He's my brother. But you _chose_ this."

"I'd choose it again, too." Cas toyed with the mug in his hands, rolling it between them. "Lumpy couches and all."

Sam stood as Cas did, holding a hand out to take the empty mug. Cas placed it carefully into Sam's hand, looking gravely into Sam's face.

"Thank you," he said, and Sam knew it wasn't just for the coffee.

"Anytime."

Cas took a deep breath and looked toward the stairwell. "I've got some harsh words to go apologize for. Don't hold breakfast." He shot a smirk at Sam. "Or probably lunch, for that matter."

Sam lowered his face into his palm as Cas raised a suggestive eyebrow. "Cas, just - don't. That's a dollar into the Yuck jar."

He watched as Cas disappeared around the corner, passing the empty mug from one hand to the other. It wouldn't be as easy as Cas was playing at - it never was - but Sam knew just how deeply Dean's affections toward the fallen angel ran. In a few days, between Sam's companionship and Cas's rather more specialized attentions, Dean would slowly come back to his normal operating levels.

He had some very good people taking care of him. And one day, he might even accept that.


	5. later

It's wildly inappropriate right now but they're tense and crouched in the alcove, every sense twisted to a hair trigger, and Cas can _feel_ the heat radiating off Dean's neck, and he can smell the combination of cheap motel shampoo and soap and leather and whiskey and sweat and gunpowder, and even though their guns are drawn and they're barely breathing as they listen for footfalls, Cas can't ignore it any more than he could a gut wound.

The echoes of the footfalls are growing fainter and Dean's shoulders visibly relax and Cas takes his chance, dips his head the few inches it takes to press his lips to the bare skin at the juncture of Dean's neck and shoulder, and he has the fleeting impression of salt before Dean jerks away as though he's been burned.

"What the hell, Cas?" he demands in a hoarse whisper, his full height towering over Cas as he crouches, the weight of what he's just done bowing his head in something close to shame.

There's a grip on his shoulder, inexorably pulling him up to standing, and Cas doesn't fight it, though he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on his shoes. But then there is a finger under his chin, pulling it up, and Cas locks eyes with Dean, whose expression is as far from the angry accusation he'd uttered moments before.

The footfalls sound again, in the distance; Dean's eyes flicker as he glanced in their direction before returning to Cas.

"Later," he says gruffly. He reaches up and, in a gesture that makes Cas's heart step sideways in his chest, rakes his hand through Cas's tousled locks in an unmistakably intimate touch before he's headed down the stone corridor, trusting Cas to follow.


End file.
